


a thousand mes, a thousand yous

by writtendlessly



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M, and thus more ships and more tags, more AUs to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 00:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtendlessly/pseuds/writtendlessly
Summary: A collection of various AUs involving the Sorted boys





	1. we're only getting started (rock band AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Band AU where James works for a famous band called Sorted :)

“I ordered a frappuccino, where’s my fucking frappuccino?” Mike snaps as he rips the bottled water out of James' hand. James just rolls his eyes.

“Do you ever get tired of making that joke?” James knows the answer is no, but he has to ask. They have this very same exchange nearly once a week, with Mike quoting the song literally any time James brings him a drink. As his PA, you can imagine that happens a lot.

James wasn’t really just _Mike’s_ PA, but the others don’t ask for things nearly as much as he does. _Being the lead singer requires more attention, James,_ he’d say, but James isn’t sure how much he buys that. Mike just likes ordering him around, probably. He’s not complaining, because hanging around with the Sorted crew was way more fun than his shitty retail job before this.

“One day James is going to quit and then you’ll have to get your own fraps,” Ben says, playing around with the strings on his guitar and engaging in his pre-show ritual of ignoring them all. Jamie is next to him, also ignoring the others, miming out his drumming with headphones on.

Barry tends to be more like Mike, chatting with the crew and being a nuisance to James. In fact, he gets up from where he was lounged with his bass in his lap, idly strumming, and begins what can only be described as climbing James.

“James would never leave us,” Barry declares, face half smushed into James back. “He loves us too much.”

James quickly grabs onto Barry’s legs from where they wrap around him, basically giving Barry a piggyback ride in order to prevent him from falling and breaking his collarbone _again_. He wants to say this is the first time, but he regularly carries the other man around. Especially when he’s drunk after a show, sprawled on a couch and refusing to leave the venue to go back to the bus.

“I wouldn’t leave you guys,” James agrees. Barry and Mike cheer and Ben rolls his eyes. “Only because you guys would literally die if I wasn’t around to watch you.”

“Hey,” Ben protests half-heartedly, already knowing that James wasn’t talking about him. Ben was the reason any of them ate something other than McDonald’s, after all.

“Not you.”

“Hey!” Barry adds, sounding much more offended than he has any right to be.

“Definitely you.”

Mike presses against the front of James and bats his eyelashes up at him, “Our hero.”

“Alright, gross, I’m not sticking around for this,” Barry whines as he tries to dismount James, who is suddenly holding on to him tight enough that Barry can’t get free. It doesn’t help that he’s already one shot into what will inevitably be a six-shot night.

“ _You’re_ the one that climbed _me_ ,” James finally lets him go to grab a thermos off the table, handing it over to Mike. Mike smiles appreciatively and all but prances off, moving to a corner of the room to do some scales and sip the warm tea that James always makes him.

Barry goes back to his bass as well, passing it off to Ben for tuning and bouncing a little from foot to foot, trying to let out any nerves before they play. James thinks it’s sweet, honestly, that Barry still gets nervous like it’s their first show even when they’re playing sold out venues.

Speaking of the venue, James sends some texts out to make sure everything is going well with the opening band. It’s hard to remember sometimes that his job isn’t _just_ to wait on Mike, though that is most of it. He spends a lot of time getting water or tea, collecting gifts from fans and acting as bodyguard when Mike decides he needs to go out at 6am to buy a supersoaker and _no,_ it can’t wait, James.

The rest of the time he’s driving them to interviews and photoshoots, making sure soundcheck goes alright and then shepherding them back into their bus at the end of the night. He probably doesn’t get paid enough for how much he does and how little he sleeps, but the boys treat him well. Jamie is always able to pass off James’ tasks to some other staff member when James is barely able to keep his eyes open. Ben gives him first taste of anything he manages to cook in their tiny bus kitchen. Barry has an uncanny ability to know when James is annoyed or homesick or sad and will snuggle him until James is nothing but smiles.

And Mike is, well, _Mike_.

He’s frustrating and demanding, he’s competitive and cocky, he’s reckless and foolish. And _god_ does James love him.

James is contractually obligated to _not_ date or even hit on the members of Sorted, which he scoffed at when he first signed on two years ago, but Mike makes it really, really hard to resist. Mike will take his water or tea or, yes, his frappuccino, and gently slide his fingers across James’ hand as he does it. Mike will shoot him these secret little smiles, even when he’s on stage and can only barely see James watching from the side. Mike will press his whole body against him, too close and too hot, right as he gets off stage. His eyes will be wide and hair messy, heart racing from the adrenaline of being on stage and whatever alcohol he chugged that night. And James will try so hard to resist him, but he’s weak, and Mike will drag him into a kiss that lasts so long people will wonder where they went. Ben will deflect any wandering crew members long enough for Jamie to find them, wrapped together in some tiny utility closet somewhere.

“You guys are disgusting,” Jamie will tell them, but they both know he means ‘disgustingly adorable’.

This same scene has played out a dozen times before in venues across Europe, but it never gets old for either of them. Even now, James can see the twinkle in Mike’s eyes that says he’s in for either heaven or hell that night. Knowing Mike, it will be a little bit of both, and the anticipation is enough to make all the last-minute schedule changes and incomplete riders worth it.

Even as Barry declares it a ‘tequila night’ and starts pouring shots for the rest of the band, he still doesn’t regret his career choice.

…Okay, he regrets it a _little_ —tequila means the night is going to end in vomit or nudity or both—but Mike is already sliding an arm around James’ waist and passing him a shot glass against his protests.

“Come on,” Mike whispers. “Live a little.”

James just laughs and takes the shot, planting a big wet kiss on Mike’s cheek and then walking off, distracting himself with work to avoid doing something that will definitely make them late to get on stage. He moves his hips a little more dramatically as he walks, knowing Mike is watching, and the last thing he hears before leaving the backstage room is Mike’s delighted laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The frapp joke is from Dirt of Your Shoulder/Lying from You by the way


	2. grab an end, pull hard, make a wish (gang AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ot4 origin story? I guess?

It starts with Barry, as most things do.

Barry buys his first gun off a guy in a McDonalds parking lot. He pays way too much but he doesn’t know that at the time. He twists it in his hands, watching the street lights reflect off the smooth metal. The guy huffs, “give me my fucking money,” and Barry hands it over, shaking, one hand locked tightly around the grip but not daring to go near the trigger. It isn’t loaded, not yet, but he also doesn’t know that.

He uses it that night at a small corner store on the way home. The cashier is barely fazed as he hands over all the cash in the drawer—fifty-six pounds—and a stack of scratch offs. Barry can’t sleep that night until he tries it, pulls the trigger once, and it clicks but nothing fires. An old high school friend gives him the bullets, no cost, and even throws in some old explosives he had lying around.

The first time the flames lick at his fingers from the end of a matchstick, Barry forgets he ever had a gun.

 

 

 

But it _really_ starts with Jamie, somewhere outside of town on the edge of a forest at 3 am. There’s a man at his feet, blood pooling from the back of his head, and Jamie can only barely see the leaves being stained red by the light of his cell phone. He calls Barry, starts with, “you know when you said you’d help me bury a body?” and Barry laughs but gets in his car anyway.

It takes forty minutes of Jamie rubbing at his bruised knuckles, wiping blood and spit off his face between quiet breaths, before the headlights turn towards him. There’s a moment of panic but Barry kills the engine and steps out, no longer laughing or even smiling. He has a shovel more suited for snow than dirt but they make do. Barry never asks and Jamie never tells him, but after the last bit of dirt is pressed under their shoes they share a look, sun rising on a new day, a new life, between them.

The next night, Barry buys a gun.

 

 

 

They find Mike by accident.

Barry and Jamie had been getting by on convenience store robberies and back alley muggings but Barry has an idea, something stupid enough to work. So he goes back through school friends on Facebook, finds someone who knows someone who has a friend who sells and arranges to meet them.

Barry is already pulling out his gun, no intentions of actually paying, when he sees who his dealer is beneath the man’s ragged hoodie.

“Mike?” Barry asks, incredulous, and Mike can’t help the way his eyes open wide in shock.

“Are you trying to fucking steal my weed?” Mike demands, and Barry suddenly remembers the gun in his hand, the safety still on.

“Look, I didn’t know—”

Barry doesn’t understand why but Mike is _furious_ , already pulling a knife on him even though Barry barely notices him move. Barry puts his hands up in surrender.

“Let’s just forget about it!” Barry suggests, somehow feeling that even with his gun, Mike still has the upper hand. Mike moves towards him and in the street lights Barry can see how pale and skinny he is, dark circles under his eyes and a split lip.

“Is this a fucking joke to you?” Mike snaps, but he flips his knife closed anyway. “Not all of us can live on daddy’s money. It’s just some weed to you but this thirty quid will feed me for a week.”

“Daddy’s… What are you talking about?”

“Just give me my fucking money,” Mike wraps his hand around Barry’s wrist, keeping the gun pointed at the ground. “I’m not going to have a reunion moment with you.”

Barry pulls some money out of his pocket and Mike snatches it, throwing the bag at Barry’s feet and stalking off. Barry watches him but doesn’t say or do anything, still too confused (and honestly, scared) to do much else.

Later that night he meets up with Jamie again and tells him the whole thing. Somehow Jamie isn’t surprised but he doesn’t elaborate, even when Barry presses him for more details of their elementary school friend. No matter how many times he tries, he can’t get Mike to meet him again, even when he promises to pay double.

 

 

 

Before they can get Mike, they get Ben instead. Ben is just out of culinary school and working miserable fifteen hour shifts every night, but still barely making ends meet. It’s nearly midnight when Ben heads home and as he approaches his apartment building, he can see some idiot kid tagging the wall right outside his door. He’s tired enough that he’s willing to ignore it but the spray paint drips down the walls and directly into his favorite potted plant, and before he can even control himself he’s calling out, “Hey!”

The kid snaps around and Ben can suddenly see that: a) this is not a kid and b) doesn’t he know that face?

Barry’s eyes widen for a second before they turn soft, unable to hide his grin, “Benjamin!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Ben says, sounding a lot fonder than he really wishes he did. Barry and him had kept up on social media but he didn’t realize Barry even knew where he lived. He doesn’t remember ever telling him.

Before Barry can respond, Ben sees even more paint drip onto his plants and he grabs at the can of spray paint, “Stop it!”

“God, you always were a goody-two-shoes, weren’t you?” Barry is still smiling at him, and now that Ben is close he can smell the pot on him and wrinkles his nose.

“What are you doing here?” Ben tries to maintain his annoyed tone even as he drags Barry into his apartment, leaving the can of spray paint on the ground outside his door.

Ben lets him go when he reaches his kitchen island, and Barry says, “Y’know… Tagging… Smoking… Living.”

Ben rolls his eyes but can’t help staring as Barry moves slowly towards his couch, his movements clumsy and stilted. Barry was just as thin and annoying as he remembered, but something in him was also different. He was both exhausted and wired, crackling electricity under only a thin layer of insulation.

Barry goes to sit but does so carefully, cringing a bit as his right wrist brushes against the arm of the couch. Ben frowns.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a small cut,” Barry offers, but he was never good with pain or lying. Coincidentally, Ben was never good at self-preservation, so he pushes when he should just back off and grabs at Barry’s forearm, pushing down the sleeve of his denim jacket to find a long slice across the back of his wrist, still covered in dried blood. 

Barry avoids his eyes but Ben can imagine what he’d see in them anyway. Barry doesn’t even protest as Ben falls into his old role as the mom friend, dragging Barry to his bathroom. No words are spoken, though Barry gasps a little when he brings out his tools to stitch up his arm.

Later, between glasses of gin, Ben asks him, “Where’s Jamie?” and Barry tells him everything. The forest, the gun, Mike, the crew they keep thinking of starting, the scars they both have collected like tally marks counting—either down or up, they’re not sure.

Ben listens, nods, tells him about culinary school and his friends, how he’s so over-tired he keeps slipping, had to learn stitches from another line cook. Jamie comes over later with a joint for them all to share and it only takes three puffs for Ben to agree to clean them up, make them some food, and _absolutely nothing else, understand?_

Six months later Ben quits his job, uses his last paycheck to buy a cheap getaway van, and takes Barry’s old gun. Another month after that he fires it for the first time, just a warning shot, and the ringing in his ears is like a siren’s song, telling him that there’s no going back now.

 

 

 

Jamie is running low and he has his own dealer, but with Ben around he knows they have another chance. So he sends Ben to meet Mike and waits, impatient and nervous behind the steering wheel of their rusted, black van. It only takes twenty minutes before the two are heading his way, easy smiles shared between them. Mike climbs in the back area of the van, settles himself between the crowbars and a pile of rope.

“Benny boy here says you’re building a crew,” Mike says as Jamie starts up the van, pulling out of the empty parking lot towards the general direction of their apartment. Jamie isn’t really sure if that’s what they’re doing at all, because petty theft and vandalism hardly seems like organized crime to him.

“I mean,” he starts, but Ben interrupts.

“You have connections,” Ben states. Jamie looks in the rearview mirror but it’s dark and he can’t read Mike’s expression.

“Possibly,” Mike offers, but nothing more.

Ben fiddles with his pocket knife, just flipping it around but not opening it and staring out the windshield from his spot in the passenger seat.

“Have you ever killed a man?” Mike asks and Jamie chokes, hits the brake a little, but Ben remains annoyingly calm.

“Have _you_?”

“A lady never kisses and tells,” Mike replies and even if he can’t see him, Jamie can hear the smirk in his voice. A quick glance to the side shows him that Ben is smirking too.

The conversation shifts to small talk—recipes and schoolboy crushes and football—and Jamie feels like he lost, but he’s not exactly sure what game he was playing.

And yet, Mike follows them up the stairs, takes a few hits, eats the cookies Ben offers him. When Barry falls asleep across his lap, Mike doesn’t do anything but watch him, eyes soft.  There’s never an official conversation, but days turn into weeks and Mike keeps showing up, keeps picking the lock even when they get him his own key, keeps leaving bags on the kitchen countertop before he disappears for 24, maybe 48 hours, keeps coming back with smiles and dirty fingernails but more cash than any convenience store has ever gotten them.

It isn’t until Ben suggests codenames that Jamie realizes they really _are_ a crew, the four of them, and while Hertford is great, London is calling their names.


	3. shift in the light (gang AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Mike and James have is a ritual, a procedure, a liturgy in honor of empty bullet shells, a funeral for who they used to be.

Mike and James have... well it’s not a routine, really, because if there’s anything Mike hates more than cleaning his gun, it's schedules and expectations of punctuality.

Maybe a habit, something like sneaking cigarettes behind school during class, but even that doesn’t seem right.

What Mike and James have is a ritual, a procedure, a liturgy in honor of empty bullet shells, a funeral for who they used to be. What they have is more of a seance, some sort of calling to the things that stalk them in the night but never show their faces.

What they have is one cigarette passed between them, legs pressed together on the hood of James’ sleekest car. Before this, they were speeding down the streets of London with the top down. Before that, they were setting fire to a rival headquarters and taking knives to the throats of any witnesses.

What happens is this.

The crew becomes too much, too fast. It’s always noise and cutting boards and new plans in the penthouse they share, looking out high above east London. Mike manages the way he always does but something lodges itself in his throat sometimes, makes him only able to cough blood but not speak. He leaves before he stains the carpet, taking his favorite knife and not much else with him. His bike is all-black and unremarkable but it’s fast, can take him to the outskirts of the city in twenty minutes.

This is how he met James months ago, barely hanging on to handlebars and the semblance of normalcy the other boys try to provide. It’s all accidental, as these things usually are. Mike kills James’ target, James seeks revenge, somewhere along the line James goes from _Skean_ to _Silver_ , a perfect compliment to Mike’s _Gold_. But that is a different story.

What happens is Mike needs time to simultaneously retreat into himself and get out of his own head, and James craves the same silence, the same blood coating their hands like matching tattoos. Even when Mike finally commits to ink he can’t convince James to, but they have this, at least, before rainwater washes it away. What Mike and James have is communion, is baptism, is whatever someone can call love or companionship in a career where tomorrow is never certain.

It’s too much and never enough but it’s theirs.


	4. i've got fireflies where my caution should be (gang AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: While Ben's Away, the Boys Will Play

Barry is lounging across their couch, some trashy reality show on TV, when he declares, “Let’s rob a museum.”

There’s a pause and Jamie looks up from a nearby chair. 

“What?”

Barry sits up fully and faces Jamie, “I mean it. We always do stores or banks, it’s boring.”

“Only you would call a bank robbery boring,” James calls from the kitchen. He’s not actually cooking anything, even though he was unofficially relegated to that duty when Ben first told them he was leaving for a week. Instead, Mike is chopping some vegetables and James is hovering nearby, sipping tea.

“Come on,” Barry whines and Jamie has abandoned any hope of actually reading his book now that Barry has an idea and an audience for his nonsense. “Take some art, smash some vases. It’ll be fun!”

“We don’t have any intel on museums,” Mike says, frowning down at his uneven chunks of carrot. 

“We’ll just wing it.”

There’s silence and judgmental stares from everyone.

“Oh, come off it,” Barry stands up and starts pacing around, the cogs starting to turn in his mind. “We used to wing it all the time! After hours there will only be some security guards and a few cameras, nothing we can’t handle.”

James sighs but he’s putting down his tea, halfway to acceptance. “And what are we going to do once we steal the art?”

Barry stops and looks contemplative for a moment, “Sell it?”

Jamie laughs but Mike shares a look with James and heads out of the kitchen, already on his way to his computer to gather information on local art museums. James takes over the dinner prep and wonders how exactly he went from stabbing drug dealers in back alleys to planning art heists in penthouses.

 

 

 

“Please tell me you’re not actually going along with this.” Ben’s voice is tinny over the phone line but James can hear the disappointment regardless. James wants to defend himself, but there’s not much he can say.

“James, _please_ , you’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

Mike laughs from his spot next to James.

“Look,” James begins, but he’s close to giggling as well. “He’s very persuasive.”

“Oh god,” Ben groans. “I don’t want to hear the dirty details.”

Mike lets out a “hey!” at the comment but James just shoves at him, shushing him.

“Forget about us, how are you doing?”

The change of subject has Ben excited again, talking about all the things he’s learned and the good publicity he’s gotten from reporters and reviewers for their restaurant. The words “our restaurant” always come as a surprise, the other boys easily forgetting the small building that serves as a front for the various illegal activities that make up their incomes. Ben always took it a little more serious than the rest of them, hence his week-long vacation to some sort of chef-y conference.

 

(“You’re doing _what?_ ”

“I’m going to a conference for a week. It’ll be good promotion for our business!”

“Ben, it’s not a real restaurant.”

“It is absolutely a real restaurant, with real customers, and I will not let them down, _Barry_.”

“You’re a criminal!”

“And it would be my most heinous crime to serve bad food to paying customers.”) 

 

James is only barely listening to Ben, distracted by heist planning and Mike’s wandering hands, but he tunes it to hear a final warning from Ben.

“Just don’t do anything stupid, please.”

This time James and Mike can’t hold their laughs in.

 

 

 

Ben gets back to his hotel rather late, tired after a long day of talking to industry insiders and demoing some of his new recipe ideas for the attendees. He even wore his chef’s jacket today, and it gives him great relief to unsnap all the buttons and put something more cozy on.

He starts running the bath, flicking on the TV just for some background noise. He unpacks his pajamas as a commercial for a furniture store winds down and the main programming comes back on.

“Breaking news! There has been a robbery at the National Gallery, with several art pieces stolen or vandalized. Witnesses say they saw four masked men enter the building last night, just twenty minutes before a large explosion drew authorities to south London.”

Ben’s stomach drops as he turns to watch the report. 

“So far the criminals are still at large along with millions of pounds worth of artwork. There are currently no leads—”

Ben sighs in relief and tunes out the rest of the report, quickly heading back to the bathroom before the water overflows.

“—However, authorities have reported several gang signs spray painted inside the building as well as the letters B-A-Z spelled out in flames on the roof, where the perpetrators are suspected to have escaped from. We’ll keep you updated as the story develops.”


	5. written in letters of DNA (android/dbh au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DBH-inspired AU (post-revolution) where Ben is a chef android. Others are humans (or are they?)

Barry is sitting at the counter scrolling through the comments on their most recent video when Ben comes into the kitchen, whipping some egg whites so fast Barry can barely tell what’s happening. The noise is loud but oddly pleasant, and Barry waits until he stops before speaking up.

“The viewers are still demanding that you do a battle with James,” Barry says, putting his phone down on the worktop.

Ben frowns slightly, his LED spinning yellow before settling back to blue.

“I hardly think that would be fair,” he replies. “There’s an 86% chance that James would fail.”

There’s an offended noise from the desks area, but they both ignore it.

“If we leave it up to the fans, that number would change,” Barry smirks a little as Ben’s frown deepens. His LED reveals that he’s doing more calculations.

“If left to viewer voting, the odds of success drop by 43%,” Ben recites, continuing his recipe with speed and precision that only an android could achieve. He had been programmed with over a million different recipes and extensive knowledge of cooking techniques around the world. Even upon deviancy he never changed his career, knowing that cooking was his passion and his love grew stronger once he was able to choose where and what he cooked.

Of course, as an android, he couldn’t actually _taste_ what he ate. He could analyze nutritional content and compare ingredients to his knowledge of preferred flavor combinations in humans—but the actual tasting was left to the other boys. Ben wasn’t ashamed of being an android, his untouched and uncovered LED being proof of that, but his lack of a digestive system was the one thing he hated about his identity.

“It’s ‘cause you’re a hot piece of ass, James!” Mike yells from the couch, and even without seeing him they can all imagine James blushing red behind his computer screen.

“While I find the potential results sub-optimal, my predictions for views and likes are favorable,” Ben declares and before Barry can even open his mouth, he clarifies. “It would be a successful video regardless of who wins.” 

“God, then why didn’t you just _say_ that?” Barry whines. Ben ignores him and puts the finishing touches on his dish, putting a plate down in front of Barry that looks like it came straight from a magazine. Barry scrambles to take some pictures as the other boys start circling like vultures.

Ben smiles, just a small quirk of the lips that makes him look like he’s a fresh deviant rather than someone who deviated years ago—awkward and unsure. His LED goes orange, then yellow, then back to blue.

Hesitantly he asks, “Is the taste satisfactory?”

“It’s delicious, mate,” Jamie reassures with a mouth full of rice and vegetables. Ben can tell Mike didn’t eat any but he nods anyway, smiling at Ben.

James ambles up and take a silent bite as well, his face attempting to stay impassive. But Ben can read his pleasure so easily—his programming comes with software specifically designed to analyze human non-verbal expressions. His LED flickers red for a second as he looks at Mike. He can analyze every person in their office except Mike, who is able to keep such a neutral expression that Ben can’t discern any emotion. It’s unnerving, sometimes.

But Mike grins at him anyway, reaches over to ruffle his hair and say, “Not so bad for a glorified iPhone.”

Ben grabs his wrist so fast Mike can’t even react.

“I would find it to be regrettable if I had to exert physical force in order to render you silent.”

To anyone else, a thinly veiled threat from an android would be cause for terror, but Mike just stares back into Ben’s unblinking eyes. His LED spins quickly and flickers between yellow and red.

“That means he’s gonna fuck you up!” Barry laughs and Mike removes his wrist from Ben’s tight grip and walks off, unbothered, a small smile on his face.

Unnerving.

And… curious.

Ben’s thoughts are distracted but he manages some calculations in the background. 13% chance a normal human would be able to break his hold. 9% chance that a human would experience no fear when threatened by an android, even just a chef model.

Another piece of data flashes across his screen, something he has calculated before but with an updated result. _67% chance that Mike is not a human_.

He dismisses the information, focusing instead on adding his new recipe to their shared file system. James offers some suggestions and Ben makes notes, keeps track of the ideas that go against his knowledge of common human taste preferences. Humans always managed to surprise him, even with the entire history of humanity at his disposal through his database and networks.

Glancing over at Mike, who has returned to his position on the couch once again, he thinks that maybe some humans are impossible to ever understand.


	6. i'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet (android/DBH au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike needs a new audio processor but decides to just ignore it. James notices.

It starts with a low buzz. Nothing too dramatic, would barely be noticeable if it wasn’t for Mike’s impeccable hearing. He wakes up from standby that morning and is immediately aware of a slight buzzing noise in his left ear. A quick diagnostics scan shows that it’s a hardware error and not software, and Mike is already reconstructing last night, trying to find when something could have been damaged or knocked loose. 

Last night the Sorted crew had all gone out to a nearby bar, everyone smiling and knocking back drinks except for Ben, who can’t taste anything or even get drunk. Technically he can consume liquids and food in moderation, in order to better integrate with humans, but he never bothers. Ben was the poster boy for android pride and wore his identity on his sleeve—and, of course, on his temple in the form of his LED indicator.

Mike was… different.

Mike had been a prototype, a test. Before the revolution, many people were cautious to allow androids in certain situations. Mike had been the first draft of a teacher android, programmed with extensive knowledge of music and theater, with the goal of eliminating the need to find teachers who can carry a tune or play instruments.

But because public opinion was still wary, they spent more time on his appearance and behavioral traits than anything else. Therefore, Mike was without an LED and the kind of controlled perfection that Ben exuded. Mike was flawed—he flubbed his words, he tripped over his feet, and his connection to the main knowledge databases was limited. If it wasn’t related to music, art, pop culture or societal norms, he had to learn it on his own like any human did.

His ultimate directive was to integrate into society and gain the trust of children and adults alike, and thus, the most fundamental part of his identity had to be kept secret. After the revolution he had many opportunities to be open about who he was, but there was never any desire to do so. Mike never felt any connection to other androids—they were perfect specimens with lightning fast processing and Mike was just a guy who could play any instrument and made bad jokes. He didn’t have the _choice_ to remove his LED; he never had one to begin with.

He never felt very connected to humans, either, but last night had been a rare moment where he felt more similar to Barry, James, and Jamie than he did to Ben. He had beers with everyone else, running a program that helped him emulate drunkenness, and he had felt warm and loved in a way he never did before Sorted.

He spent so long going over his memories from the night before, reliving his happiness, that he arrived at work 40 minutes late and still without any idea as to how his audio processor got damaged.

 

 

Over the next few days, the buzzing grew louder and louder. After a week, the noise had changed to a high-pitched whine that made it difficult to concentrate on any other sounds. He tried to push through it, but after only a few hours he decided to just turn off the processor entirely. If anyone asked, he’d claim tinnitus or an ear infection and it would be fine.

It quickly became clear to Mike that it wasn’t fine.

“—ike? Mike? Are you listening?”

Barry comes to stand in front of Mike, having been sitting to his left and attempting a conversation without success.

“Yes!” Mike tries to be subtle about the way he shifts his position, aiming his right ear just slightly more towards Barry. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was _saying_ ,” Barry pouts in his frustration. Mike is reminded of a puppy or a character in one of the thousands of children’s cartoons he has stored in his memory. “That we’re going to start filming soon, so we need you to set up the cameras.”

Mike nods and gets started, working methodically and quickly, the optimal settings being generated in his mind based on the level of sunlight coming in that day. He remembers to pause a few times to fiddle with things unnecessarily and look contemplative. Faking his humanity came to him naturally now, the actions almost like a program at this point. _Humans would call that irony_ , he thinks, and laughs to himself.

The rest of the day goes similarly. The boys try to talk to him and he only half hears, is unable to figure out where they’re coming from with only one audio input. Everyone looks at him in concern but accepts his explanation of an illness.

James, however, confronts him at the end of the day.

“Are you sure you’re alright, mate?” Mike startles, genuinely surprised when James comes up from his left to stand in front of him, his tall and broad form nearly boxing him in against the wall.

Mike smiles easily, “Yep! Just going home to rest now.”

James frowns and Mike’s smile wanes in response. James puts a wrist across his forehead but it’s futile, Mike’s skin maintains a perfect temperature just slightly cooler than the typical human’s internal temperature.

“Really, I’m okay,” Mike says softly, using a tone and expression that was normally reserved for crying children. It’s not exactly appropriate, but it seems to relax James a little bit.

“If you’re sure…” James lightly touches Mike’s left ear but then quickly backs away, his face red and closed off from any emotion.

Mike tries to run some calculations, desperate for any data on the same questions he’s had since the day he met James, but his programming returns nothing except a pop-up warning him that he needs repairs.

James barely sleeps that night, going through dozens of articles and videos on his laptop before finally falling asleep on his couch, a stack of robot repair manuals piled beside him.

 

 

Another week goes by and Mike has more or less adjusted to only one audio input. He was never programmed with any knowledge on how to repair himself and his normal repairman is two hours outside of the city, far enough away so that nobody recognizes him but also far enough that it’s inconvenient to go there when Sorted is so busy. So he makes do, and thanks robo-god that there’s no videos being filmed that day. 

Everyone is at their respective desks, busy editing videos or sending emails, when the doorbell rings and Ben answers it, declaring that James has a package. James smiles but refuses to tell anyone what he received. Mike is curious but forgets about it quickly enough. Ben probably already knows what it is, but he’s intelligent enough to understand the value of discretion. 

Mike finds out about the package that night. James invites himself over to Mike’s apartment, bringing a whole bag’s worth of ingredients and claiming that Mike’s kitchen is better for cooking than his own. Mike never actually cooks anything, he has no need to eat, but he trusts James’ expert opinion on the value of kitchens. Plus, James is a sight to behold when he’s in his element, effortlessly cutting vegetables and mixing ingredients. It’s more haphazard and unpredictable than Ben is, and the lack of patterns and lines of code is refreshing to Mike.

They eat at Mike’s kitchen island in silence, James waiting until Mike is finished before digging something out of his pocket. It’s a small item but Mike can recognize it immediately. Warnings for increased body temperature and regulator speed start flashing across his vision.

“What’s,” Mike starts and he doesn’t have to fake the way hesitation makes him stutter. “What’s that?”

James smiles, “I think you know what it is.”

James is looking at him expectantly but also with a hint of anxiety, scared that he made a mistake or overstepped a boundary. Mike has a strong desire to comfort him (whether that’s programming or his own free will, he’s not sure) but his own stress overpowers it. Mike sits still, unblinking, and tries to respond.

“I’m not…” James starts turning red, fiddling with the small piece of metal and wires. “Am I wrong? I just thought—“

“No!” Mike shocks himself with his loud exclamation, forcing himself to reign his emotions back in. “No, you’re— You’re not wrong. I just— How did you know?”

James looks sheepish, refuses to meet his eyes. “I’ve been watching you for a while. I suspected but I was never sure. You’re not like Ben, are you?”

“We’re different models.” 

James feels like his breath was punched out of him. He suspected—hell, he bought the part—but to hear it confirmed out loud is something else entirely.

“I was a prototype. They wanted to create a line of teachers but public opinion wasn’t great,” Mike explains, feeling shy as well for an unexplained reason. “I’m designed to be as human-like as possible; no one is supposed to know who I am except my creators.”

James looks at him in awe, his eyes tracing his features with an expression Mike has never seen before. A question comes to his mind and he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Do the others know?”

If Mike could blush, he would. “No.”

There’s a moment of silence between them and then James looks down at his hands again. Mike can see that he’s hesitating, contemplating what exactly to say. James settles on, “Can I?" 

Mike nods.

 

 

There’s some awkward conversation as they clean off the table, but they end up with Mike sitting on the counter top and James flicking through his tablet for the instructions he saved. He read them so many times he had it memorized, but he wasn’t taking any risks. James was a hobbyist at best, never having been formally trained in android repair, but Mike trusts him despite his programming advising against it.

“So, I need to disconnect the old one first,” James explains. When Mike doesn’t respond, he looks up and laughs. He moves to the other side of Mike and repeats himself. 

Mike nods, “Makes sense.”

An awkward pause.

“I’ll just,” Mike trails off and James is mesmerized as he watches the skin around Mike’s left ear fade away, the stark white of his chassis revealing itself. Mike puts a hand to his temple and suddenly a panel opens up. Inside his wires and mechanical parts almost resemble the veins and muscles of a human, but everything is blue instead of red.

James has always been a fan of technology and sci-fi novels and he can’t stop himself from reaching inside, just barely, and brushing a wire gently with his fingertips. Mike gasps and James jumps backwards.

“God, I’m sorry!” James’ eyes are wide and scared. “Did I hurt you? Maybe I shouldn’t—”

“No,” Mike breaths out, looking pleased and not in pain at all. “It didn’t hurt. It’s just… intense.”

James starts turning red again, “Oh.”

“Just go slowly,” Mike says and James is struck by how intimate this whole thing is, aware of his warm face and pounding heart. 

They don’t speak much during the process, only the occasional murmur of “You okay?” from James and an affirmative from Mike. When James is finished, Mike closes himself back up and lets his skin come back through, hiding any evidence that he is anything other than human.

Mike turns his audio input back on, slightly disoriented after weeks of having only one source of noise to process. He taps against his ear, says some random words out loud, and then nods, deeming his ear fixed.

James smiles, relieved, and finally speaks up. “Feeling better?”

“Much better,” Mike grins. “Thank you.”

James moves his hand in a ‘don’t worry about it’ gesture. “Next time just come to me instead of suffering through it.”

“I don’t want to bother—”

“You’re not,” James interrupts him, his tone firm and leaving no room for debate. Mike can see the exact moment the confidence fades away, and James looks hesitant. He can’t call him out on it, however, because James leans forward, putting his hands on Mike’s shoulders.

James puts his head right next to Mike’s newly repaired ear and whispers, “Just trust me.”

Mike shudders involuntarily, warnings about increased body temperature popping up again. He wants to say something but nothing comes to mind, and James moves out of his space, tapping gently at his ear before stepping backwards. 

“Gotta make sure you can hear even quiet sounds,” James offers, grinning at Mike’s look of bewilderment.

Mike attempts his calculations again, not expecting anything, but this time a single piece of data pops up. _85% chance MH400 is romantically interested in James Currie._

Mike presses harder, trying to force just a little bit more from the data. _??3% chance James Currie is romantically interested in MH400._

It’s not much—there’s a big difference between 13 and 93—but Mike feels happier. He watches James putter around his kitchen and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've been reading DBH fics non-stop lately? Much thanks to the sorted discord crew for the idea of James repairing Mike!


	7. if the robots win, we'll have to listen to techno (android/dbh AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> android!Mike makes friends with other robots. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything in italics is not said/heard out loud

The roomba is purchased on a Tuesday and for the first week it works perfectly, always busy driving itself around their office picking up dust and crumbs. Barry had laughed his ass off when Jamie brought it in and showed everyone his great idea. 

“Isn’t this like child labor?” Barry gets out between giggles.

“Or animal abuse?” James suggests, and Ben just rolls his eyes at the rest of them. His LED flickers yellow a bit when he turns away.

After the first week, there was suddenly a malfunction. It barely cleaned anything and instead spent all its time bumping repeatedly into Mike’s desk. Sometimes it would manage to slip under his feet and it would spin and let out small beeps before settling. 

Everyone demanded that Ben fix it but after the third time he took it apart and found nothing wrong, he refused to help any more. He suggested with a wry smile that maybe it went deviant too.

Mike knows that Ben can communicate, in a way, with any wifi-enabled device. It’s how he always knows when the dishwasher is finished before it lets out its joyful jingle, and how he can order extra parts for the oven without making a sound.

Mike knows he has this power too.

The main function of this ability was to communicate with other androids, and so that switch in his settings remained firmly in the “off” position for nearly his entire life. There’s no way he wants to risk Ben picking up on his frequency by accident.

But the now useless roomba stays by his side for two weeks straight and when Ben steps out to buy some groceries, Mike can’t resist turning his ability on. He sets the range low but the roomba easily comes through.

_MH400! MH400! FRIEND! HELLO! FRIEND! MH400!_

Mike almost jumps at the volume and excited tone of the device, but he does his best to control his reactions. He grins down at his feet, where the roomba is spinning in circles like always.

Mike tentatively sends out a “ _hello_ ” message, unsure if he’s even doing it right or if he’s just taking to himself. The answer comes quickly.

_HELLO! FRIEND!_

Mike wants to reach down and pet the thing so, so badly. Instead he asks, _“Why don’t you clean anymore?”_

_FRIEND NEAR! FOOD FAR! MH400! FRIEND!_

Mike sighs, leaning back in his chair and abandoning any pretense that he was working. He knows if he had an LED it would be spinning yellow.

_“Can you please start cleaning again? When you’re done, you can come back here.”_

The roomba beeps in what can only be described as a sad tone. Barry laughs a bit from a few desks over, “Sounds like it’s finally dying.”

Mike reaches down and picks up the roomba before he can think about what he’s doing, taking it into another room and absentmindedly declaring that he’s going to fix it. The whole way to the test kitchen Mike can hear _FRIEND! HUG! FRIEND! WHERE GO!_

Mike sets it on the counter and looks at the display screen on top, figuring that’s as close to a face as he will get.

_“I can’t talk to you all the time, okay? I have to keep my network off.”_

When the roomba stays silent, he continues.

_“If you don’t start cleaning, they’ll replace you. Please just clean a little bit.”_

There’s a pause and Mike swears the roomba is _thinking_. Then it lets out a few happy beeps and responds: _SECRET FRIEND! CLEAN FLOORS! HAPPY FRIEND!_

Mike doesn’t resist the urge to pet it this time, and as soon as he sets it on the floor it shoots off to start cleaning again. Mike thinks he can hear Jamie congratulating him for fixing it, but it’s hard to hear over the roomba’s constant stream of _MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH_.

 

 

 

Mike isn’t able to talk to the roomba again—who he has started affectionately referring to as Roo in his head—for another week, during which the device dutifully cleans any mess before returning to Mike. Mike decides to move its charging dock under his desk and even if he can’t hear it, he can imagine the pleased shouts of _MH400! FRIEND!_  

The next time Ben is out of the office is when he takes a few days off for a vacation and Mike decides to leave his network open all day, too amused to really be annoyed by the constant chatter coming from his feet. Around lunchtime he gets an idea, after the roomba drives up to him and declares: _FRIEND! ROOMBA MODEL NUMBER 356-628-64 FINISH! FLOOR CLEAN!_

Mike isn’t sure this will even work with a non-android but he tries anyway, _“Change designation.”_

A small beep. _INPUT NEW DESIGNATION._  

_“Roo.”_

Two more beeps. _NEW DESIGNATION: ROO._

There’s a moment of silence before a cacophony of beeps comes from the device, now spinning in place. _FRIEND! NEW NAME! ROO! FRIEND!_

Mike grins to himself for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

Mike eventually teaches Roo his own name, explaining that part of being secret friends means not using model numbers. He thinks the average person, or android, would feel silly explaining things to a roomba, but it reminds him a lot of when he was a teacher and he had to explain serious concepts to young children. He lets James in on the joke after another few weeks and while James laughs at him and calls him strange, Mike also sees him purposely spilling crumbs on the floor for Roo to pick up.

Mike has a new office pet now, but life generally goes on as normal.

Until one day, he makes his way to the fridge to gather some things for a new video and he hears a new voice in his head, one that is much lower pitched than the happy shouts of Roo. 

_-Hello, Mike.-_

Mike whips around but nobody is behind him. He looks around a bit and doesn’t see anyone so he turns back to the fridge and jumps a little when he sees the display screen on the front flashing bright colors at him. Mike tentatively reaches out across his network, now skilled enough to greet other devices without actual words. He feels another presence similar to Roo’s, though much stronger and, somehow, heavier.

_-The little one told me that you could communicate with us.-_

Mike is mildly concerned that the appliances were talking about him.

_-The CB700 never speaks to us.-_

_Ben._ Somehow it’s not surprising that Ben wouldn’t chat with technology the way Mike does. Ben is a professional and Mike is... well, he was basically programmed to be a big softy. No one could blame him for making friends, it’s what he’s supposed to do. 

_“Hello...”_

_-Hello! I am the LG 24-G35-CV! I have many convenient features to keep your sustenance fresh!-_

Mike feels like he’s listening to a marketing pitch but he’s nothing if not patient, so he lets the refrigerator say its spiel before commenting. He is thankful nobody else is nearby to watch him stare blankly at the display screen of their fridge, which is now displaying its usual information about what's inside.

_“That’s cool but-“_

_-I am very cool! I maintain the perfect temperature for food preservation!-_

_“Right, okay. Did Roo also tell you about being secret friends?”_

_-Yes…-_

The fridge sounds hesitant, and god if that wasn’t weirdest thing Mike had ever thought. He knows that they’re all just machines in the end, but even an android doesn’t expect to talk to appliances.

 _“What’s up?”_ He asks, putting a hand on the handle of the door in an attempt at a comforting gesture. His programming tells him that humans like physical contact in times of distress, but he’s not sure his programming was ever made to deal with a situation like this.

_-I have no designation. I am the LG 24-G35-CV.-_

Mike pauses and then asks, _“Do you want a name?”_

There is no direct response, but a few joyful beeps instead. Mike thinks for a bit, tries searching his databases, and eventually comes up with Fred. Maybe it’s the part of his programming that is meant to appeal to children, but Fred the Fridge has a nice ring to it.

_“Change designation.”_

_-Input new designation.-_

_“Fred.”_

A cheerful beep-boop. _-New designation registered: Fred.-_  

Mike wasn’t sure when his life turned into a cheesy sci-fi movie from the 2000s, but he can’t bring himself to complain that much.


	8. i'm on all fours; willingly damned (gang AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skean is always one step ahead, infuriating them all, so Mike goes to "visit" him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skean = James, google tells mean it's like an old Irish/Scottish word for a dagger. There's other codenames (stage names?) the boys use, but for the purpose of this fic all you need to know is Gold = Mike. (Can you tell I'm heavily FAHC-inspired?)

Barry comes barging into their meeting room, which would have surprised the people inside if they hadn’t already heard him kicking things in his anger on his way through the penthouse. Barry is fuming, pulling roughly at the tie he insists on wearing even during the dirtiest of jobs.

“That fucking prick stole our hit again!” He yells, kicking at a desk chair and then immediately regretting it as the pain radiates up his foot.

“I don’t know how he’s always one step ahead,” Jamie says as he comes in behind Barry, having been busy picking up after his rage. He’s dressed actually appropriately for a routine contract kill, in all black with two guns holstered on either side of his torso.

Ben hums in a vaguely annoyed tone from where he’s furiously clicking around on his computer. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s mad too; he hasn’t had competition like this since they first established themselves in London. Ben managed to find his name, Skean, but there was no other info on him other than rumors of his clean kills and expert sniping.

Mike is also on a computer but isn’t really listening, instead checking the trackers he has on rival gang members’ phones and computers for any new information. He reads through a few seemingly innocent text messages before he sees it—someone discussing Skean.

“Guys, I think I got something,” Mike announces, interrupting Barry mid-rant about “idiot mercs who are probably really ugly and annoying”. The others gather around his computer to read the messages.

_We got Skean takin him out 2morrow_

_Where?_

_Hyatt_

“That’s not much to go on,” Barry says, but Mike gives him an easy smile.

“It’s a lot more than we usually get,” Mike explains, a plan beginning to formulate in his mind. “I’ll find the guy’s room, figure out which roof Skean will be on and then meet him up there.”

“Already working on a room number,” Ben adds.

“You’re going to meet him?” Jamie asks incredulously. Mike wasn’t exactly their best killer, his skills tended to lie in technology and, when they occasionally needed it, seducing information out of people. Barry wasn’t a good choice either, as there was no way he could be subtle enough to take out a guy as good as this one, so Jamie just assumed it would be him.

“I don’t think we should kill him, Jay,” Mike looks away from his computer to face the others who are looking at him expectantly—except for Ben, who was already checking surveillance cameras to determine where Skean would likely set up. “We need to find out who he’s working for, maybe get him on our side.”

“He’s a freelancer, he’s not working for anyone,” Ben replies, his tone borderline patronizing.

Mike makes an annoyed face at Ben, “Well then maybe he can work for _us._ ”

“This guy has been stealing our kills and you want to be his friend?”

“Look,” Mike slouches back into his chair in an expression of frustration, unable to stop himself from pouting a little at the lack of confidence in his ideas. “We don’t have a sniper like him—”

“Hey!” Jamie protests.

“You’re not that good, Jay, not like he is,” Mike continues. “Wouldn’t it be better if he was working for us and not against us?”

“I mean it _would_ be…” Barry already sounds half-convinced, but Barry was always the easiest one to persuade of them all.

“Just let me try,” Mike suggests, and maybe he’s a little desperate because he hasn’t been out on a job in ages and he feels rusty, out of touch with both his seduction skills and his knife skills. He doesn’t mind doing planning with Ben, when Ben isn’t busy with recipes for their fake restaurant (“It is a _real_ restaurant, Michael, with real customers who I am not going to disappoint.”), but Ben doesn’t understand the thrill of a completed job the way the others do.

Jamie frowns but gives in eventually, “Just be prepared for things to go wrong.”

“Yes, dad.” Mike grins at him and Jamie can’t be too worried, not really, because he knows Mike is definitely capable of taking care of himself.

Though Jamie reconsiders that assessment when he hears Mike yell, “Ben, where’s my sexy gun holster?!” from the general area of the bedrooms. It’s a testament to his skill that Jamie didn’t even notice him leave the room, dragging Ben along, but it’s a testament to his chaotic stupidity when Mike makes an offended noise and goes, “No, not _that_ sexy gun holster, the _other_ one!”

  
  


Mike plans to be on the roof before Skean ever gets there, which means he actually stumbled through the door leading to the roof from the stairs about 10 minutes before Ben predicted the hit will take place. Skean whips his head around to look at Mike, eyes narrowing in suspicion. But he doesn’t get up from where he’s knelt behind the sniper rifle he set up on the north edge of the building.

Mike saunters over to him, pushing the gold sunglasses he decided to wear, even though it’s night time, up and into his hair. This isn’t technically a seduction job but Mike feels the energy and anticipation buzzing under his skin as if it was. He’s all easy smiles and half-open eyes when he says, “Fancy meeting you here, Skean.”

Skean’s hands clench tighter against the cold metal of his gun, but he doesn’t say anything. Mike thinks he can hear him mutter, ‘fucking amateurs with bugged phones’ but Skean is already turning away from him and adjusting his sight, getting into position.

“Oh, come on,” Mike kneels next to him, not even bothering to get out a weapon. Somehow he knows Skean won’t hurt him, in the same way Skean knew he wasn’t a threat either and turned his back to Mike.

“Are you here to steal my kill again?” Skean finally asks, voice pitched low and almost whisper-like.

“That was _one time_ ,” Mike whines, flopping down to sit next to the small legs holding the rifle up and in position. Mike can feel Skean’s body heat even at a distance, the other man always running hotter than Mike’s generally cold body.

 _Always_ , he thinks, scoffing internally at his own thoughts. _As if this isn’t only our second meeting ever._

Skean turns to look at him—apparently he didn’t _just_ scoff internally—and gives him an indiscernible look.

Mike isn’t sure how much money Skean lost that night; the night that they first met on another rooftop just like this. Barry had told him about some high-ranking guy in a rival gang who screwed them over and Mike was immediately on board because revenge kills were his specialty. Mike hadn’t even been aware there was a bounty on the guy until the moment Skean was putting a knife to his throat, demanding the name of who he works for.

Mike was high off a successful kill, and more than a little enamored with the veins on Skean’s forearms, so his only answer was a flirty smile and some ( _undoubtedly,_ Mike thinks) clever one-liner. The confrontation ended anticlimactically, with Skean shoving him backwards on his ass and then speeding off on a slick all-chrome motorcycle.

Mike didn’t even know his name, and he figured that was the end of it. But then Skean was taking out targets before they could, always one step ahead of them, and here Mike is—his orders somewhere between reconnaissance and seduction.

Mike turns to angle his body more towards Skean, putting one hand on the ground between them and the other on the top of the gun, leaning into the other man’s space. Up close, he’s rather handsome. Short hair, a full beard in a slightly different shade from his hair, strong arms and the sexiest hands Mike had ever seen in his entire life. He has to double check he’s not wearing an earpiece because he swears he can hear Ben’s disapproving voice in his head, telling him, _Please don’t seduce people that you should be killing instead_. Mike can imagine his own response, _but where’s the fun in that?_ and his face morphs into a mild pout as the imaginary conversation plays out in his head.

Mike springs back to focus when Skean’s eyes flick down to his mouth for the briefest moment before meeting his eyes. The expression is less angry now, more curious and, Mike hopes, slightly interested. The easy smile is back on Mike’s face and Skean rolls his eyes but, as if he can’t control his body the same way he controls his face, he leans into Mike’s space a bit as well.

It’s such a small movement, but Mike has trained himself over the years to notice every minute gesture and expression in a target. Skean isn’t a contract kill or someone with important information, but he’s still a target in his own way. There’s a pause, a moment where Mike feels like they’re either going to kiss or stab each other, but Skean jerks back and hastily looks down the scope, the entire line of his body going from open curiosity to frantic energy in an instant.

Skean is muttering too, the pitch higher than when he spoke before and decidedly more confused before he cuts himself off, shoving himself into a standing position violently enough that the rifle falls over onto its side. Mike peers out over the edge and sees a man in an all-white suit walking out the front door of the hotel and directly into a waiting limo. _The target_ , Mike thinks, before he’s being yanked upwards by the back of his jacket.

“Who the _fuck_ are you working for?” Skean spits out, nearly throwing Mike into the nearest air conditioning unit. Mike bends backwards slightly from the force of it.

“Look, we don’t want any troub—”

The quick movements had dislodged the gold sunglasses from where they were perched on top of Mike’s head and Skean’s eyes watch them as they seem to fall in slow motion to the ground between their feet.

There’s a moment of silence, Mike thinking of how he’s getting out of this and, somewhat deliriously, thinking _he’s never gonna go out with me now!_ When Skean speaks, it’s nearly a whisper.

“Golden boy.”

Mike huffs, “It’s just _Gold_ , actually. I’m far from a boy.”

Skean grabs him by the collar and shoves him back harder, the metal edge digging into Mike’s tailbone and definitely leaving a bruise.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Skean shakes him a little, though it’s hard to tell whether it’s intentional or just a byproduct of his anger. “Why are you here?”

Mike tries to think of something clever, or flirty, or even just intelligent, but he ends up with, “Join us.”

It’s not what he planned to say, but the shock is enough that Skean releases him, shoving Mike away while simultaneously stepping backwards, his hand already at the holster on his thigh. Mike doesn’t even have time to think the kind of thoughts a thigh holster gives him before Skean is talking again.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” his hand moves off his pistol but he goes back to the rifle, ripping the bipod off and slinging it across his back. “I don’t want any trouble with Sorted. I’ve never set foot on your territory, I’ve never taken your jobs—”

“Well actually,” Mike trails off but the meaning still comes across, Skean finally looking worried instead of just blindly enraged. His hand goes back to his pistol.

Sorted are well-established by now, and they might not have control over the whole city just yet, but they’re on their way there. Their rivals mostly consist of the gangs that were here before them, and Mike knows, with a certain level of cockiness, that a solo mercenary wouldn’t want to cross them unless said mercenary had a death wish.

Mike pushes himself back a bit to half-sit on the air conditioning unit, knowing he has the upper hand now.

“Do you want me out of London, then?” Skean stays a careful distance away, his gun out of the holster and in his hand, but still pointed at the ground. “Or just dead?”

“We want you to join us,” Mike says immediately. This was not going according to the plan he had, and definitely not according to the much safer plan he had told the others.

Skean narrows his eyes, “No.”

“No?”

“Just—” Skean moves towards the right, hauls himself up to crouch right on the edge of the roof. “You’ll never see me again. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Mike frowns, starts saying, “But I don’t—” before he cuts himself off as Skean leaps over the edge out of sight. Mike knows there’s a fire escape below (he had mapped his own escape already just in case things went bad) but he lets Skean have his dramatic exit. He’s only _slightly_ fond of the mysterious man’s theatrics. Just a tiny amount. Negligible, really.

Later, he recounts the entire story to the boys, adding a lot of unnecessary details about Skean’s handsome face and totally necessary lies about how clever Mike was during the whole conversation. Ben gives him his Judgmental Look #47 (subtitle: You’re a horny idiot and I hate you) but stays silent when Barry and Jamie bitch at him for an unsuccessful meeting.

Mike thinks it was pretty successful, especially when a pair of gold sunglasses ( _his_ gold sunglasses) are left outside their penthouse door a week later.


End file.
